


just the other side of reality

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Delirium, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Multi, Polyamory, Supernatural Illnesses, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is in the hospital again, because <i>of course</i> he can’t keep his ass out of trouble for even a week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just the other side of reality

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for prompt #157 Delirium at fullmoon ficlet. I thought I was going to write something happy and fluffy and light, and ended up angsty and talking to dead people instead. But happy ending!

Stiles is in the hospital. Again. Because _of course_ he can’t keep his ass out of trouble for even a week.

Jackson gets the call at half past ten, but he’s in a meeting and can’t listen to his voice mail until lunch, and as soon as he hears the words _Stiles_ and _hospital_ he tells his assistant to hold his calls and move his meetings and he’s out the door while she yells after him _AGAIN?_

Yes, again.

Jackson should just donate money and have a wing of the hospital named the Stilinski Ward and have it devoted to supernatural trauma, used by those few in the know about the truth of Beacon Hills.

He tosses his suit jacket on the passenger seat, rolls up his shirt sleeves and yanks off his tie. The buttons feel like they’re choking him, and he undoes the top two to let his shirt gape open. The Porsche roars to life, chews up the miles between his office and the hospital in five minutes flat. He’s grateful for the valet parking—grateful that they always take care of his Porsche like the baby it is. He waves to David, drops the keys off with Elijah, and reminds them to take good care of the car. He’s not sure how long he’ll be, but he suspects it’s going to be a while.

He doesn’t bother with the welcome desk, nodding at Marianne on the way by before he takes the stairs up to the third floor, heading for room 345 in the back, where they always put Stiles. _Always_. It’s on the edge between ER and ICU, and Melissa can easily move between the two departments to take care of him.

He hears Melissa before he gets there, her voice pitched low and calming in counterpoint to the rough growl that reverberates in the hallway, echoing under his skin. “Derek,” he says, and the growl fades into a soft whine. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s that bad,” Derek says, and Melissa’s voice stops.

“I take it Jackson’s here?” she asks just as Jackson rounds the corner.

“I’m here. I didn’t see the message until more than an hour after it was sent. Came as soon as I could.” He inhales quickly, taking in the worry from Derek and the medicinal cleanliness from Melissa that masks everything else. There’s blood on Derek’s shirt, but it smells more like Derek than Stiles. As he gets closer, he catches something sweet and acrid, something that makes his nose itch uncomfortably. “Did he get dosed with wolfsbane?”

“That was me,” Derek admits. He takes a rough breath, steps back to let Jackson come in closer, making a small circle with himself and Melissa. Jackson takes the space offered, then promptly ignores it, getting one arm around Derek’s waist, edging in close enough to press up against him. “I’m okay,” Derek tells him.

“But Stiles isn’t. What’s going on?” Jackson looks to Melissa, looks past her at the closed door. “Is Deaton here? Is this medical or supernatural?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Melissa says quietly. “All we know is that Stiles is unconscious, and he’s alive, and that’s better than where he was an hour ago.”

There’s a thud in Jackson’s chest, his heart twisting brutally in pain. “He died?”

“On the table, twice.” Melissa keeps her voice carefully even. “But he’s fine now, Jackson. He’s going to be fine. I’ve sent his blood down for a workup, and Alan will be joining Scott in the lab so that they can check for any supernatural or other unusual medicinal influences. As soon as we identify the toxins, we will be able to make sure that he’s completely stable and bring him out of the coma.”

“They’re keeping him under in a medically induced coma,” Derek says quietly, his arm around Jackson’s shoulder, fingers digging into his bicep. “They tried waking him up, and he crashed, immediately. Once they revived him, they put him under.”

“He’ll be fine.” Melissa closes in on both of them, manages to get her arms around their shoulders to tug them into a firm hug. Jackson’s breath shudders as he tries to keep his mood even, tries to put on a strong front for Derek. “I’m going to go check on those results and make sure Alan and Scott don’t need anything else. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and in the meantime, Malia is on shift. I’ll send her up with something to eat for both of you. You can’t help him if you refuse to take care of yourselves.”

Derek inhales like he’s going to speak, and Jackson squeezes him quickly, beats him to the punch. “Thank you, Melissa.” He knows Derek was going to say not to worry, not to have Malia interrupt her shift. But this is what Melissa can do to help, and Jackson isn’t going to take that away from her. “Coffee would be good. I don’t think I could eat anything yet.”

“Coffee then.” Melissa kisses Jackson’s forehead, then tugs Derek down enough so she can do the same. “You two go sit with him. Hold his hand, keep him anchored. I know how you work.” She nudges them toward the door. “Be positive. That’s better than anything else right now.”

Jackson disengages from Derek, and together they go through the door into the private room, closing it behind them. Stiles lies quietly in the bed, too still for Jackson’s comfort, and while he looks his fill, tasting the scent on the air to make sure it doesn’t taste like death, Derek pulls two uncomfortable chairs close to the bed.

“We don’t need two,” Jackson says, shoving one right next to Stiles on the side without the IV. He pushes Derek toward it, then settles in across his lap. Together they hold Stiles’s hand, and Jackson’s head drops to Derek’s shoulder, breathing in time with the two of them. He hates that all they can do is wait.

#

“I’m not hungry, mom.”

Jackson wakes when Stiles speaks out loud, sits up in bed and stares at the door. It’s still closed but Stiles blinks at it like someone is there. Jackson reaches back, tries to tap Derek’s shoulder but ends up smacking him in the chin instead.

Stiles tilts his head, brows furrowed. “I don’t even like liver. You know that. Besides, why are you feeding the selkies liver? You promised to get them salmon. Wait, why are the selkies here? Does Dad know? He doesn’t like it when you invite our imaginary friends to dinner.”

“Stiles,” Jackson whispers, and Stiles’s eyes go wide, the amber color almost invisible around the dark of his dilated pupils.

“Oh,” Stiles whispers. “Oh. Oh…” He collapses back against the pillow, body arching stiffly into the air. The machines cry out, whining loudly, the sound of his heartbeat flickering. Jackson holds on tight, speaks to him, says anything that goes through his mind, his heart, his absolute soul as he begs Stiles to stay with them.

Derek spills Jackson off of his lap, jumps up to grab a needle sitting on a table, injects it into the IV tube.

Stiles relaxes like he’s been punched, head lolling to one side, his heart slowly regulating, breath making his chest rise in shallow motion.

“He’ll be okay now.” Derek pulls Jackson back, gathers him in, nuzzles at the side of his head.

“Was that what happened before?”

“Just the seizure before,” Derek murmurs. “That’s the first time he spoke.”

“Do you think it means something?” After all these years, they’ve learned to catalog every possible symptom, because they never know what might be at the root of the troubles in Beacon Hills. The problem is, Stiles is usually the one cataloging and figuring things out. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know,” Derek admits. “We were going out to get some coffee—Stiles had to be at the library for his shift by eleven. We were sitting outside the cafe, then this woman stumbled into us. Clawed up my face until Stiles pulled her off of me. She grabbed him like she was going to kiss him, leaned in forehead to forehead, then passed out. A minute later, Stiles’s eyes rolled backwards and he was on the ground, too.”

“Where’s the woman?” Because that seems like the obvious question to ask, and Jackson has to assume it’s _been_ asked before now.

Derek’s expression goes tight. “In the morgue. They weren’t able to save her.”

And Deaton can’t exactly do an autopsy on a human body, although it’s possible Scott would be allowed to observe since he’s doing his residency in the hospital. But that will take too long; they need answers soon. “So she infected Stiles, but not you.” Jackson pulls away, settles into the chair again, one hand on Stiles’s forehead. “He’s hot, but not ridiculously. Something’s causing the delirium.”

“Go ‘way, Laura,” Stiles mutters. “I’m good to him. Promise.”

Derek’s heart sounds like it’s going to beat out of his chest. Stiles whines, tries to roll over and is stopped by the IV taped to his hand. “I said I’m _not hungry_ ,” Stiles growls. “Don’t want dinner, Mom. And oh my God, why do you have the Hales with you? Laura’s judgy eyes are so _judgy_.”

“I don’t even know what to do with that statement,” Jackson murmurs.

“It’s true,” Derek says softly. “Laura was very good at judgmental looks.”

“Naiads?” Stiles opens his eyes again, stares at a point just past Jackson. “Well, yeah, I can see the resemblance. It’s the cheekbones.”

“The fever can’t be this bad,” Jackson says. “It has to be something in his blood. Something she did to him which must affect humans.”

“She wasn’t human, not with the claws she had,” Derek says. “So whatever it was affected her, too.”

“But not you.” Jackson considers Derek. “Healing factor.”

“Oh. Wow.” Stiles pushes himself to sitting. “Um. Wow. No, really, I’m honored, but could you put some clothes on? This is kind of awkward. You know I’m dating your son, right?”

Derek goes stiff and takes a step back, turning to look at the empty space where Stiles stares. Jackson swears Derek says something, but even Jackson can’t hear it. He just slips into the space behind Derek, winds his arms around him, kisses the nape of his neck. “Do you realize that every person Stiles is talking to is dead?” Jackson whispers. “Maybe he’s not actually delirious.”

The problem is that Lydia’s on the other side of the country, and Parrish is with her, working in Boston while Lydia finishes her doctorate. Every person they know who deals with the dead is somewhere else. Jackson waits while Derek processes it, hears the low sound of _mom_ this time before Derek sits down quickly, tugging Jackson back to sit on his lap again.

Jackson pulls his phone out, texts Scott: _Stiles is seeing—and talking to—dead people. Does that help you?_

Stiles shakes his head. “Mom, I’m really not hungry. I don’t want anything. Not fruit, not meat, and no, I don’t want juice. I know you went to a lot of trouble, but I’m _not hungry_. I have to get home to Derek and Jackson.”

Jackson’s phone buzzes.

_Dude, that totally helps us narrow it down. Deaton’s got something. I’ll be up in five._

Jackson’s thumbs fly across his keyboard. _Make it faster. The dead people are trying to convince Stiles to eat and he keeps refusing. I think if he does, we lose him_.

Derek’s hand slides up and down Jackson’s arm. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, and Jackson knows he’s been reading over his shoulder.

Scott slams through the door moments later, a syringe in his hand. He holds it up, checks to get rid of air bubbles, then injects it into the IV line.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Stiles whispers, closes his eyes, and passes out.

#

It’s another two hours before Stiles wakes up. Scott stays with them for the first half hour, explaining about the cocktail of herbs and tree barks that they found in Stiles’s bloodstream, as if he’d injected them. They aren’t sure how it passed from the woman to him, but she had obviously ingested a hallucinogenic drink which interacted badly with her Fey metabolism, then passed it along to him.

“It broke down the veil between here and there.” Scott gestures as if he can indicate the otherworld with his hand. “Made it so that the dead could come talk to Stiles and try to bring him back with them.”

“For dinner,” Jackson says dryly, but Scott’s expression is sober.

“Forever,” he says, and even though Jackson knew that was what was happening, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

But they won. The injection Scott gave should have counteracted the herbal concoction, and all they need is time before it purges from Stiles’s system. It’s obvious when it does, as his expression eases and he tightens his hold on Jackson and Derek, eyes fluttering open slowly.

“Whoa,” Stiles says softly. “I was going to say I had the weirdest dream, but I get the feeling it wasn’t all a dream. What the hell am I doing in the hospital?”

“Again,” Jackson and Derek both say, and Stiles makes a face.

“Okay, what am I doing in the hospital _again_?” Stiles clarifies, and it takes time to fill him in. Time spent with explanations, and descriptions, and the realization that not only did Stiles meet Talia Hale and his own mother, he met Jackson’s birth parents who died so long ago. Jackson isn’t sure how real it all was, but for the first time, he has names and faces to go with the tiny bits of information about his past and something to research, so maybe some good has come out of this.

Melissa checks Stiles’s vitals, declares him surprisingly fit and in great shape considering the ordeal he’s had. Then she orders two cots brought to the room and refuses to let a doctor sign him out—they’ll be spending the night with him to make sure he gives his body time to heal.

“You didn’t just see the veil between the worlds,” Derek says seriously. “You tried to cross it. Multiple times.”

“And in case you didn’t notice, we’re stubborn and plan to keep you here, with us, for a while longer.” Jackson sits on the edge of the bed, leans in to brush a light kiss across Stiles’s lips. “So rest. And stop trying to party with the dead people. Lydia will think you’re trying to take over her job.”

“Couldn’t have that.” Stiles reaches for Derek, tugs him to join them on the bed. “I’m staying here. You guys are stuck with me.”

“Good. Let’s just see if you can avoid the hospital for a week or two.”

“A day.”

“An hour,” Derek mutters, and Stiles and Jackson both laugh. It’s lighthearted and easy now, as long as they have Stiles safe and on the right side of the veil.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com).


End file.
